


Jump Into the Fog

by taradiane



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Angst with a Happy Ending, M/M, Mpreg, Romance
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-04-05
Updated: 2014-04-05
Packaged: 2018-01-18 07:30:36
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Major Character Death, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 9,282
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1419693
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/taradiane/pseuds/taradiane
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Draco returns to Hogwarts for his eighth year carrying a secret that will change not just his life, but Harry's as well.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Jump Into the Fog

**Author's Note:**

> Written June 2012 for the harrydracompreg fest on lifejournal, using the following prompt:   
> Eighth Year: Draco is back to finish his NEWTs, but is it true that he is pregnant? And if so, who is the other father? Draco is refusing to tell. There is a rumor going around that it is Voldemort's baby... The other father is either Harry (who will take care of the baby no matter what), or one of those who died in the last battle (Snape, Lupin, Fred...)
> 
> *Note that the major character death is NOT Harry or Draco. Also, I've deliberately chosen not to tag the relationship that produced the child, as it isn't revealed until the very end, and isn't the focus of the story.

"You hear about Malfoy?" Seamus asks me, his mouth full of pork pie.  
  
Dean approaches our table and sits down next to him, giving me a wide smile.  
  
"Morning, Harry. It's good to be back, isn't it?"   
  
He reaches across Seamus for the tray of toast, and I nod in agreement, already distracted by Seamus's question.  
  
"What about Malfoy?"  
  
Seamus swallows his mouthful and takes a drink of pumpkin juice, his eyes crinkling in amusement. Ginny walks through the doors of the Great Hall, her eyes deliberately avoiding mine, and sits down next to Parvati Patil.   
  
I care less than I think I should that she's still avoiding me.  
  
"Malfoy's here?" Neville asks, plopping down beside me, a large bulbous and slightly slimy plant teetering precariously atop his Charms textbook.  
  
"What about Malfoy?" I ask Seamus again, growing impatient. Rumours about Malfoy have a tendency to be true. Well, mostly true. Either way, I want to know. I _need_ to know. Malfoy has invaded my thoughts every day. I've no idea what's happened to him or his parents since I last saw them huddled together, here in the Great Hall, while the rest of us catalogued the injured and the dead.  
  
"It doesn't matter, Harry," Dean cuts in just as Seamus opens his mouth. "You know how Seamus is, telling tall tales to anyone who will listen."  
  
"Shows how much you know." Seamus leans back, grinning smugly.  
  
"Potter, a word."  
  
I turn around and see Professor McGonagall - Headmistress McGonagall - standing over my shoulder, her great tartan hat casting a shadow over her face. Every time I look at her, I remember the wrenching cry she made as Hagrid had carried my body onto the grounds, Voldemort having proclaimed me dead.  
  
I glance at Neville, Dean, and Seamus, who only shrug before going back to their breakfast, Neville trying to engage Dean in a conversation about his budding Screechsnap plant. I guess the Malfoy rumours can wait.  
  
"Of course, Headmistress."  
  
I follow her out of the Great Hall, and though I want to know why she's called me away from breakfast on our first morning back, I'm almost afraid to ask. I don't want to talk about the War. Not about any of it. It was difficult enough watching her give the opening year welcome announcements from the place where Dumbledore once stood. I love her dearly, but I miss him.  
  
"Buttered parsnips," she says to the gargoyle that still guards the Headmistress's office, and the sound of stone grinding against stone as the staircase is revealed echoes loudly in the empty hallway.  
  
As we enter the room where so many secrets were revealed to me, I'm taken aback by how different it looks. Everything from the tapestry on the wall to the desk where she now sits has changed. The only part of Dumbledore that remains, besides his portrait on the wall behind her, is the perch where Fawkes used to rest. I'm about to ask her if she has seen the phoenix when she finally speaks.  
  
"Potter, it's good to see you."  
  
She motions for me to sit in the plush red chair across from her.  
  
"You, too, Headmistress."  
  
"I trust that you slept well last night?"  
  
"Fine, Headmistress," I nod as she pours two cups of tea. There's something indefinable in her posture and tone that is making me nervous. I sense a bombshell about to drop.  
  
"Getting on well without Mr Weasley and Miss Granger, I take it?"  
  
I nod.   
  
"Memory charms can be a nasty business, but I have full faith in Miss Granger's abilities."  
  
My mind is still down in the Great Hall, wondering what news I'm missing about Malfoy.  
  
"As you know, Potter, several of your classmates have returned to complete their education." She removes her hat and purses her lips slightly. "Though it's certainly less than I had hoped, of course. A particularly poor showing amongst the Ravenclaws. Obviously the events of last year were less than ideal for learning."  
  
She holds out a delicate plate and offers me a biscuit. I take one to be polite, but any appetite I had from my interrupted breakfast is dissipating quickly. I don't like the look in her eyes.  
  
"You need something from me." It's not a question.  
  
She clears her throat and places her hands in her lap, and her eyes dart briefly to the portrait of Severus Snape. He is asleep, his body leaning in the direction of Dumbledore's beside him. The old man winks at me, and I can't bring myself to smile.  
  
"One student is returning who will need . . . special attention."  
  
A strange feeling blooms in the pit of my stomach.  
  
"Attention?"  
  
"Protection, Potter."  
  
I open my mouth, and the name that has been at the forefront of my mind since Seamus first mentioned him spills out.  
  
"Malfoy."  
  
"Yes, Potter, Draco Malfoy is returning."  
  
I sit back, uneaten biscuit still in my hand. McGonagall stays silent, awaiting my reaction.  
  
What I feel is closer to relief than apprehension or dread. It is strangely unsurprising that he would return, even after . . . everything.  
  
"And you want _me_ to protect him? Why? Why me?"  
  
She stares at me, through me, for a long moment.  
  
"Despite your years of animosity, I believe that you of all people will have come to an understanding about the unique pressures that young Mr Malfoy faced in those final months. Am I wrong in that assessment?"  
  
I hesitate before shaking my head, and a flicker of relief flashes in her eyes.  
  
"After much consideration, I feel it only fair that Mr Malfoy be given the same chance as every other student to return and finish his schooling, but there will be some who will not welcome him here."  
  
"Seems a bit of an understatement, Headmistress."  
  
"Be that as it may," she says, her posture impossibly straight, "I'll not turn away anyone who comes to me with good intentions, and I'll expect the students of Hogwarts to behave accordingly."  
  
"You might be expecting too much."  
  
"That is why I have called on you, Potter."  
  
I take a deep breath.  
  
"I understand."  
  
"Do you?"  
  
"You want me to protect him from the other students. The ones that he tortured."  
  
"Draco did not torture anyone."  
  
"He handed them over to the Carrows when ordered - I don't think that they'll see much difference."  
  
Her lips tighten, but I can tell that she doesn't entirely disagree with me. I wouldn't be here if she did.  
  
"There is something else that you need to know. Mr Malfoy is facing a . . . unique predicament."  
  
"Predicament?"  
  
"Draco Malfoy is with child, Potter."  
  
I'm not entirely sure that I've heard her correctly. Malfoy has a child?  
  
"A child? With who? Parkinson?" It's the first name that springs to mind. I can't imagine anyone doing _that_ with Malfoy, but Pansy Parkinson used to hang on him like a vine.  
  
"You misunderstand. Draco Malfoy is _with_ child. Draco Malfoy is pregnant."  
  
I can't help the bark of laughter that escapes. It's _absurd_ \- surely she's joking, but the frown on her face says otherwise.  
  
"I am quite serious, Potter. While it is a rarity in our world, wizards can conceive and carry a child to term, and that is where Mr Malfoy finds himself at the present moment. He must not be harmed, for while I may tolerate a certain amount of rough and tumble tomfoolery with the boys in this school and their silly little rivalries, I will not tolerate any harm to his unborn child."  
  
My mind is spinning and thoughts are racing. Malfoy? _Pregnant_?  
  
"Oh do close your mouth, Potter."  
  
McGonagall waves her wand and the tea service vanishes. She seems flustered, but all I can focus on is _Malfoy_ and _baby_ and _pregnant_.  
  
"It will do no good asking who the other father is, as he isn't willing to divulge that information and quite frankly, it isn't relevant to our concerns regarding his safety."  
  
"I . . . I don't understand. Why is he coming back when he's . . ."  
  
"Mr Malfoy will need to gain employment now that his family's fortunes have been significantly cut in light of his father's imprisonment. He will remain here until the Christmas holiday, at which point he will be sufficiently caught up to successfully gain as many N.E.W.T.S. as he requires to pursue whatever profession he so chooses. After he has the baby, of course."  
  
"Christmas?"  
  
"Yes. The baby will arrive in January, so there will be no point in him returning after the Christmas holidays. Mr Malfoy has always been a bright student when not distracted by Dark Lords and an oppressive father. He will attend advanced classes for those few students who qualify to finish early. The same classes, I might add, that I'd attempted to persuade Miss Granger into but she stubbornly declined."  
  
She gives me an accusing look as though it were somehow my fault – as though I could have persuaded her to delay the trip to Australia for a few more months. Hermione hadn't mentioned any of this to me. I wonder if Ron knows.  
  
"Will you help, Potter?"  
  
It takes only a few seconds for my mind to be made up. It isn't as though I would ever deny McGonagall anything. And I think she knows it.  
  
"What do you want me to do?"  
  
"Watch him - something in which I believe you're more than proficient," she says, giving me a knowing look. "I've arranged your schedules so that you will be able to accompany him to his classes while en route to your own without drawing any untoward attention. Mr Malfoy was adamant that no one know of our arrangement-"  
  
"He knows? And he _agreed_?" I ask, interrupting her in surprise.  
  
"Yes, of course. I am not accustomed to arranging for students to be spied on, Potter."  
  
"I'm just, well, surprised. And he knows it's me?"  
  
"He requested it."  
  
My surprise turns to shock. She ignores it and continues.  
  
"As all returning seventh year students are being housed together, you should have no problem keeping an eye on him while not in classes and between meals."  
  
It suddenly dawns on me that this means Malfoy will be _living_ with me. With all of us - Dean and Neville and the dozen or so rest of us boys who came back. Gryffindor, Hufflepuff, Ravenclaw . . . they all had at least two who returned, but none from Slytherin. At least, not until now.  
  
"You want me to escort him to his classes? Follow him around like some kind of bodyguard?"  
  
"Of course not. I merely wish for you to, as I said, keep your eye on him and, hopefully, be there in case things were to turn . . . sour."  
  
I try to come up with a reason to say no to her, and fail. I'm not sure that I could ever refuse a request from McGonagall, not after everything that she's done for me. Besides, it isn't as if I wouldn't be watching Malfoy like a hawk of my own volition anyway. Old habits die hard, after all.  
  
"Why isn't he already here?"  
  
"He is. We both agreed that it would be best to approach you this morning and let you enjoy your first night back at Hogwarts."  
  
"That was generous of him." I don't bother hiding my sarcasm.  
  
"I believe that you'll find Mr Malfoy much changed, Potter. He is no longer the boy he once was. Nor, I might add, are you."  
  
There's that look again - the one that makes me feel like an ickle firstie being scolded. It's been so long since I've seen it . . . it actually feels good. Normal.  
  
"Where is he now?"  
  
"With Madam Pomfrey. He is to see her every morning to take his prescribed potions. It should be the only inconvenience to your daily routine."  
  
As I stand to leave, she puts her hand on my shoulder.  
  
"I hate putting another burden on you, Potter. I trust that you won't let me down."  
  
A wave of affection for her washes over me, and I place my hand atop hers and give her a genuine smile.  
  
"No, I won't."  
  
It isn't until I'm back in the corridor, the gargoyle already back in position behind me, that an obvious thought suddenly stops me in my tracks., and I can't help but voice it aloud.  
  
"Wait, Malfoy's _gay_?"  
  


\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/

  
  
I make my way down the formerly forbidden third floor corridor to the dormitories that now house those of us who have been dubbed 'the eighth years.' All told, there are only about forty of us who bothered to come back – girls outnumbering the boys nearly two to one, and more from Gryffindor than any other House. I miss the Gryffindor common room, and still don't understand why we weren't allowed to return to our former Houses.   
  
I wonder now if Malfoy is that reason. Pregnant Malfoy. Gay Malfoy.   
  
Malfoy, who is pregnant and gay.  
  
I can't quite wrap my head around it. I'm not sure which is more shocking.  
  
"Hinkypunk," I tell the portrait on the wall. The woman in the painting, a portly old maid with coal black hair and a grumpy disposition, looks up from her knitting and gives me a once over before revealing the entrance to our dormitory.  
  
The common room has been done up in shades of rich purple, and looks as though it's been here forever rather than set up as a temporary residence. It's empty at the moment, as my talk with McGonagall has made me late for my first class. I ponder whether or not to risk skipping it altogether in favour of more sleep, but as I open the small door that leads to the boys sleeping area, I realise that I'm not as alone as I thought.  
  
"Malfoy."  
  
He turns, startled, and glares at me. Nothing new there.  
  
"You could knock," he says, bitingly.  
  
"I didn't know that anyone was in here."  
  
"Hence the need for knocking."  
  
It's the memory of McGonagall's earnest look and _'I trust that you won't let me down'_ that keeps me from snapping back at him.  
  
"Sorry," I say instead as he turns back to his trunk.  
  
I desperately want him to stand up so that I can see . . . it. He doesn't look all that different from when last I saw him. I walk around his bed and lean against the bedpost as he digs through a large pile of books. This certainly puts to rest the mystery of who the extra bed was for. It was all anyone could talk about the night before.  
  
"You cut your hair."  
  
"Well-spotted, Potter."  
  
He glances up at me before quickly looking away, as though he can't quite meet my eyes.   
  
Suddenly I'm back in Malfoy Manor, face stinging and swollen, and Draco kneeling in front of me, telling Bellatrix he isn't sure if it's me.  
  
"I like it. It suits you."  
  
His hands pause briefly, clearly not expecting me to exchange niceties about his hair. It's put him off guard, and I find that I like that. Malfoy off guard is usually less cutting and spiteful. I sit down on the edge of his bed and lean casually against the headboard, hands clasped behind my head as though we were just two school chums, talking about our day.  
  
"So, Malfoy, why weren't you at breakfast?"  
  
He looks at me askance again. "You know why."  
  
It's then that I notice a fundamental difference in Malfoy. Gone is that proud, haughty look that was always stamped across his face. He seems deflated somehow. I almost feel sorry for him.  
  
"You could have come anyway, no one would have cared." I shrug, and I suspect he knows it's as big of a lie as I do. It would have been awkward as all hell, and we both know it. Still, keeping up the pretense that nothing is wrong seems important - as though this entire situation isn't abso _fucking_ lutely bizarre. It's taking all my willpower not to stare at his midsection.  
  
I pull the revised class schedule that McGonagall gave me from my trouser pocket and unfold it.  
  
"We've got Charms in half an hour. Have you eaten?"  
  
"No," he says quietly, closing his trunk lid. He looks at me now, straight at me, and I can tell he's suspicious.   
  
That's rich, considering.  
  
"Come on, then. McGonagall pulled me away from my breakfast, and I'm not sitting through three hours of classes without at least having some toast."  
  
I stand and start towards the door, but he's just watching me.   
  
"Come on," I say again, this time tugging the bottom of his sleeve.  
  
I think it's the first time I've ever touched him without malice or fear forcing me.  
  
Finally he follows.  
  


\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/

  
  
"Why are you being so nice to me?" Malfoy asks around a large bite of apple.  
  
Kreacher brings over a large platter covered with scrambled egg, buttery toast, sausages, and small wedges of cheese. I don't bother with a plate and dig right in, famished.  
  
"I'm kind of sick of fighting, Malfoy. Aren't you?"  
  
He picks up a wedge of cheese, sniffing it before taking a small bite.  
  
"I suppose so."  
  
I glance down at his stomach again - probably the fiftieth time since seeing him in the dormitory.  
  
"You won't see it, Potter."  
  
"Hmm?" He's caught me, and I'm embarrassed.  
  
"Concealment charm. You won't see it. No one will."  
  
"Oh."  
  
"Don't sound so disappointed." There's a hint of a smile there, and I'm tempted to tell him that it looks good on him.   
  
"So, er . . . how long until, um, you know."  
  
Malfoy's face goes slightly pink as he clears his throat.  
  
"Not until mid January."  
  
"I see. So . . ."  
  
"Four and a half months," he says, growing even more pink.  
  
"I've always been crap at maths," I laugh, trying to ease the tension.  
  
Malfoy recovers from his embarrassment and picks up a fork to start in on the eggs, and we spend several minutes in silence, just enjoying the food.  
  
"Where's your sidekick, then?"  
  
"Ron was never my sidekick," I say defensively, barely stopping myself from making a comment about Crabbe and Goyle. "He's in Australia with Hermione and her parents."  
  
"I didn't- " he starts to say, and stops. Looks at me. "Sorry, I didn't mean to insult your friend."  
  
I'm too surprised by the apology to even respond, so I just shrug and go back to my breakfast.  
  
"God, I've missed this," I say, stabbing at another sausage and biting down on it. "Nothing better than Hogwarts food."  
  
Malfoy looks down at his plate and grins. I was right; it does look good on him.  
  
It's not at all uncomfortable, the two of us sharing a meal, and I'm pleasantly surprised. The next few months don't seem quite so daunting now. I can do this - be civil with Malfoy. Friendly, even.  
  
Who said that you can't start over?  
  


\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/

  
  
" _Malfoy_? Really?"  
  
Madam Pince shushes us, and Neville looks sheepishly in her direction.   
  
"McGonagall asked me to do it. I won't say no to her."  
  
"Malfoy, in our room? Where we sleep?" Seamus whispers furiously, "What if he tries to kill us in the middle of the night?"  
  
I roll my eyes at him. "This isn't fourth year anymore. He's not the same as he was before. None of us are," I say, remembering McGonagall's words from that morning.  
  
Something else from that morning springs up in my mind.  
  
"What were you going to tell me earlier? About Malfoy?"  
  
Seamus starts to laugh, and Dean punches him in the arm.  
  
"Malfoy's up the duff."  
  
"What?" Neville says far too loudly, drawing Pince's ire again.  
  
"Don't start in on that ridiculousness again, mate," Dean cuts in with a sigh.   
  
I'm trying to keep my expression sufficiently surprised. Part of me is, but only in that others are talking about it. Apparently I'm the last to know.  
  
"What do you mean?" I ask, all fake curiosity and innocence.  
  
"Exactly what I said- oh come on, Dean, how can I not talk about it?"  
  
Seamus follows Dean into the stacks, both of them disappearing. After a few moments, Seamus re-appears, this time alone.  
  
"Rumour has it Malfoy's up the duff," he says as he sits back down.  
  
"Really?"  
  
Neville looks back and forth between us.  
  
"Yeah, some are even saying it's Voldemort's evil spawn, and if that doesn't put you off your dinner for life, nothing will," he says, grimacing.   
  
"Where'd you hear that from?"  
  
"Mate, everybody's saying it. Not sure where it started, really, but where there's smoke there's fire, right?"  
  
"'Spose so."  
  
"Gran once told me about how wizards could have babies," Neville offers, but when I look to him for more details, he just shrugs. "Just said that it was unnatural."  
  
I put my head down, pretending to concentrate on my Defense Against the Dark Arts text and wishing lunch would hurry up and come.  
  
I miss Ron and Hermione.  
  
"Don't you think it's funny?"  
  
"What?"  
  
"What? What do you mean, _what_? Malfoy up the duff, of course!"  
  
Pince gives us the evil eye again, and Seamus leans closer.  
  
"Could you imagine if it's true? Serve the wanker right if you ask me."  
  
"I don't think it's true," Neville whispers.  
  
Seamus laughs under his breath. "We'll all find out soon enough," he says, sitting back in his chair, and puffing out his cheeks, mimicking a large, round belly with his arms. "See you gits later, then." Seamus frowns, seemingly dissatisfied with our lack of reaction, and stands gathering his books and disappearing once more into the stacks, likely in search of Dean.  
  
It's on the tip of my tongue to tell Neville it _is_ true, but I remember Draco's comment about the Concealment charm and I bite back the words. I feel guilty, not telling Ron my secret, but it's not really my secret to tell.  
  
"Amazing, isn't it?" Neville asks, interrupting my thoughts.  
  
"The Malfoy thing?"  
  
"No, well yeah, but I mean _this_." He waves his hand around, motioning at the library. "It's only been four months since this place was a heap of rubble, and look at it now. Like there was never a stone out of place."  
  


\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/

  
  
"Oi, Malfoy, I hear you like to take it up the arse."  
  
I'm no more than fifteen paces behind him when I hear Zacharias Smith laughing at his own lame insult. There are a couple of fifth years beside Smith, snickering. It doesn't surprise me that Smith can't find friends from his own year, not after what he did - or didn't do - during the final battle.  
  
Malfoy doesn't miss a step, continuing on as though he hadn't heard a thing. I feel strangely proud.  
  
"Tell us, Malfoy, do you like it on your back, or do you prefer it on all fours like a dog in heat?"  
  
The snickering grows louder as others feel at liberty to join in. I want to put Smith in his place, but I'm not sure how Malfoy would react. Malfoy's nothing if not proud, and I've been on the receiving end of his cutting remarks often enough to know that he can hold his own. Still . . .  
  
"Was the Dark Lord's prick as scaly as his face?"  
  
Full-fledged laughter has erupted now, and my patience breaks.  
  
"Why don't you ask your mother?"  
  
Smith spins around, eyes searching the sparsely crowded corridor for the culprit. I walk toward him, stopping mere inches from his face. I can see Malfoy from the corner of my eye, watching.  
  
"What did you say to me?"  
  
"Did all that fighting during the War damage your hearing?"  
  
His face turns red at the unspoken dig. Everyone knows that he ran away, leaving several first years - some of whom are watching our exchange - on the floor in his wake.  
  
"Fuck you, Potter," he splutters in humiliation.  
  
I move to walk past him, knocking my shoulder into his, and continue down the corridor toward the Defense Against the Dark Arts classroom. I pass Malfoy who's looking at the floor, his jaw tense.  
  
He looks angry, possibly at me, but at the moment I can't bring myself to care. That Smith bastard has been asking for it for years.  
  


\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/

  
  
A few weeks pass without so much as a peep out of Smith since our confrontation in the hallway. The rumours are still flying, of course, but they've grown to such absurdity that no one pays them any mind anymore. The last one involved Nagini – even Malfoy had to laugh at that. The other boys in the dorm didn't take long to adjust to Malfoy being there. It seems that most everyone was too keen to forget about the War to hold grudges – well, except for Smith – but Malfoy having his family's dirty laundry aired out in the press for all to see seems to have only benefitted him. It's a relief to me that I don't have to put forth too much effort in keeping the peace between Malfoy and everyone else.  
  
I still miss Ron and Hermione, but less and less as routine and the deluge of homework and exam prep takes over. Malfoy has turned out to be a good study partner – he has all of Hermione's organization and determination, but I never feel like I've been pulled into the Headmistress's office to be scolded when I admit to blowing off an assignment or two.  
  
It wasn't until Neville mentioned it this morning that I realise just how much time I've been spending with Malfoy. He is surprisingly easy to be with, and it turns out that his cutting sarcasm is actually quite funny when it isn't directed at you. Malfoy fits in, and if I stop to think about it, I can't quite wrap my head around it. All I know is that I'm glad for it.  
  
Part of me is even glad that Ron didn't return, because I'm not sure that things would be going as smoothly as they are if he had. Ron wins gold medals in grudge-holding, and though I miss my friend, I'm enjoying this new start with Malfoy. I suspect that Ginny hasn't mentioned anything in her letters to Ron, because his letters to me haven't mentioned Malfoy at all. I'm certainly not going to bring it up.  
  
"The game's started – you coming?"  
  
Malfoy pulls on his winter cloak and tugs a pale grey woolen cap over his head. It's not even Halloween, but the chill has come especially early this year.  
  
His Concealment charm is in place, as it always is, but lately I've been entertaining the idea of asking him if I can see it. My curiosity hasn't lessened – quite the opposite – but I don't know how he would take the request. It just isn't something that we talk about, and now that I'm no longer walking with him to see Pomfrey in the mornings for his potions, there doesn't seem to be an appropriate time to ask.  
  
I would hope that he would tell me if anything was wrong with the baby, but I'm just not certain. I think that we're friends, or as good as, but there's still so much unknown about the boy who has commandeered so much of my life of late.  
  
"Sure," I say, fetching my shoes out from under my bed and slipping them on, laces be damned.  
  
"If you fall on your face, I won't help you."  
  
"Wouldn't expect you to."  
  
Pulling on one of Molly's Christmas jumpers, we make our way out into the corridor and through the doors of Hogwarts, heading towards the Quidditch pitch. Malfoy once asked me why I didn't sign up to play this year, and I told him the truth. Snitches just don't have the same appeal that they once did.  
  
It might be the understatement of the decade.  
  
I trip slightly on one of my untied laces, and Malfoy laughs. It's as bright and clear and crisp as the cold air whipping around my face.  
  
"Shut up, Malfoy," I say, unable to hide my smile and knocking his shoulder with mine.  
  
He jostles me in return, and as we approach the stands, our shoulders are still touching.  
  


\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/

  
  
"Want me to fetch the ingredients, Harry?"  
  
"Hmm, sorry, what?"  
  
"Ingredients?" Neville repeats, pointing to the blackboard where Slughorn has listed the items needed for our next potion. The fact that this particular potion contains Exploding Fluid makes me regret even more that I partnered up with Neville at the beginning of the year.  
  
Though, I suppose that Terry Boot has the worst of it today as he's partnered with Seamus.   
  
"You all right there, Harry?"  
  
"Yeah, fine, just too much Halloween grog last night," I answer, smiling.  
  
"I'll fetch them if you get the cauldron fire going."  
  
"Sure thing," I reply, diverting my attention away from Malfoy and Dean and back to the task at hand.  
  
Potions are all right when you don't have a man like Snape breathing down your neck. I may know the truth about him now, but his bravery didn't stop him from being an unmitigated arse when it came to dealing with, well, everyone. But particularly me.  
  
Malfoy gets on quite well with Dean, and I've noticed over the past several weeks that it seems to have caused a bit of a rift between him and Seamus.   
  
As I light the fire under the cauldron, I see Malfoy making his way back to his and Dean's table. He passes by Slughorn's desk, jostling the corner of Smith's table, and several Erumpet parts fall to the floor.  
  
"Watch it, you little faggot," I hear Smith say under his breath. I'm not sure that anyone else has heard, but Malfoy's expression tells me that he certainly has.  
  
Anger wells up inside of me, and before I know it, I'm standing in front of Smith.  
  
"Say that again," I demand.  
  
"What?" Smith stands up, challenging me.  
  
"I said, say that again."  
  
His beady eyes narrow and he opens his mouth.  
  
"I told the little faggot to mind where he's going."  
  
"Thank you," I say, just before my fist lands solidly on his nose. The sound of my hand hitting his face isn't loud enough to cover the crack of Smith's now broken nose as he lands arse-first on the floor.  
  
Chaos erupts as the other students either gasp or laugh, and Slughorn is clumsily rushing over to find out what's happened.  
  
"I say, what's the meaning of this, Potter?"  
  
"He hit me!" Smith says from where he lay on the floor, blood gushing from between his fingers.  
  
Just as I'm about to tell Slughorn exactly why Smith had it coming, I hear Draco's voice behind me, small and fearful.  
  
"Harry?"  
  
I turn to look, and fear grips me as I take in the state of him - the cauldron of already prepared potion, full of Exploding Fluid, that was sat on the edge of Slughorn's desk has spilled all over him from the chest down. His robes are smoking, and all that I can think about is the baby.  
  
I can tell from the look on Malfoy's face that it's all he's thinking about, too. Blisters are already starting to appear on the exposed skin of his hands.  
  
"Oh dear, oh dear, oh dear," Slughorn is saying, but he sounds very far away as Malfoy's eyes are locked onto mine, full of a fear that neither of us have voiced.  
  


\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/

  
  
I glance down at my watch - it's just past midnight, and Malfoy is still sleeping. I've half a mind to transfigure this chair into something more comfortable, but I know that if I do, I'll only fall asleep, too.  
  
If I hadn't let my temper get the best of me, Malfoy wouldn't be lying here in this bed, hands covered in bandages. He's sleeping peacefully, at least. Once Pomfrey had told him that the potion hadn't appeared to soak through his robes, he'd calmed considerably.  
  
I can't stop thinking about the moment that I first saw . . . it. In the rush of ascertaining how much damage Draco had sustained, he either didn't notice that I was still in the room when Pomfrey removed the concealment charm, or didn't care. I'd like to think it was the latter. It wasn't as shocking as I thought it might be all those times that I'd imagined what it would look like before. It looked strangely . . . normal. Malfoy's long, lean torso meant that it wasn't sticking out nearly as far as I'd expected considering he's nearly seven months along.  
  
It's strange to think about how, after so many years of being at each other's throats, Malfoy and I have fallen into an easy friendship. I'd thought of Malfoy often in the days after the War, especially after Ron and Hermione had left for Australia and I had too much time alone with my thoughts. Ginny had already started to pull away from me when I expressed no desire to resume our relationship, and in the final days before term started, I had little else to do but sit around the dusty rooms at Grimmauld Place and wonder what had become of the Malfoys after the expedited trials.   
  
Lucius hadn't even put up a fight, and Kingsley had assured me that my statement to him about what Narcissa did in the forest was enough to grant her clemency. As for Draco . . . well, I'd had a lot to say about him as well. The images of him in that house, under Voldemort's thumb, still burn in my mind's eye.   
  
We were all so young, fighting in a War that preceded us by decades. I don’t feel young anymore.  
  
Hermione once told me that dragon's blood had purifying properties. I wonder if the blood spilt by the War did more than just stain the grounds at Hogwarts. Maybe that's why I can't bring myself to feel any animosity toward Malfoy, even after . . . everything.  
  
It's odd to think it, let alone say it aloud, but right now, Draco Malfoy is the closest thing that I have to a best friend here at Hogwarts.   
  
I hear the rustle of linen, and see that Malfoy has started to waken. He opens his eyes, blinks through the darkness, and finally sees me.  
  
"Hi."  
  
"Hi yourself."  
  
"What time is it?" he asks, sitting up and wincing slightly as his blistered hands press against the sheets.  
  
"Just after midnight."  
  
I pull an apple from the pocket of my robe and offer it to him.  
  
"You missed dinner. Thought you might be hungry."  
  
He shakes his head, and I place it on the bedside table in case he wants it in the morning.  
  
"How are you feeling?"  
  
"Fine, I think."  
  
He stares at me for a long moment, and the silence grows heavy.  
  
"I should go, and let you get back to sleep," I finally say, standing.   
  
I'm halfway to the door before Malfoy calls out, and asks me to stay.  
  


\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/

  
  
It's nearly two in the morning, and Malfoy bites into a slice of the apple I'd brought with me earlier. My tiredness has passed, and I know that it isn't likely I'll get any sleep tonight. I'll pay for it tomorrow, but I can't bring myself to care. I'd much rather be sitting here with Malfoy than asleep in my bed, dreaming of those that I was too late to help.  
  
"Potter . . ."  
  
Malfoy's voice trails off, and I can tell that he's nervous about whatever he's about to say.  
  
"Will you tell me about Snape?"  
  
It was the last question I was expecting, and my surprise must be evident.  
  
"It's only . . . he was the only person that I trusted before the end. I know that you saw him die. Will you tell me?"  
  
"Malfoy-"  
  
"Please, I want to know."  
  
His voice is so small, so needy, that I can't bring myself to refuse. Even if it is the last thing that I want to talk about.  
  
"It was Nagini."  
  
His face goes pale, and my mind immediately flashes to what he'd learned about Charity Burbage and her fate. Draco had been witness to her death.  
  
"It wasn't like . . . like what you're thinking."  
  
He nods shakily, and I try to come up with the right words to make Snape's death less brutal than it really was.  
  
"He was bitten. It was quick." I allow myself the lie to spare Malfoy's feelings.  
  
"He cared about me, you know. He wasn't what people thought."  
  
I'm not sure how to respond, so I sit in silence. Waiting.  
  
"For a while there, I didn't even trust my own mother. Severus was the only one that I could trust. Rely on."  
  
My brows raise at Draco's use of _Severus_ , and suddenly I'm filled with a hundred questions about what went on at Malfoy Manor that Voldemort didn't give me the courtesy of witnessing.   
  
Especially about the man who was in love with my mother until his dying breath.  
  
"People like to call me the hero, you know, but it was him."  
  
"He'd hate you for saying that," Malfoy says with a small smile that doesn't reach his eyes.  
  
"He hated me anyway."  
  
"Can I ask you something?"  
  
"Of course."  
  
"Did you only agree to do what McGonagall asked you because you felt like you owed it to my mother? For what she did for you in the forest?"  
  
It's not something that I've consciously thought about, but now that I've been asked . . .  
  
"Maybe a little bit at first. Does that bother you?"  
  
He shakes his head.  
  


\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/

  
  
"Pansy and I were never together. She just helped me pretend."  
  
"You sure it was all pretending on her part?" I ask, remembering how she used to drape herself all over him. The memory of it makes me uncomfortable, and I've no idea why.  
  
"She always knew that I was gay. She knew before I did, really."  
  
"Hmm."  
  
"It doesn't bother you, does it?" His question bleeds uncertainty.  
  
"Malfoy, if it bothered me, do you think that I would've hung around as long as I have?"  
  
"I'm not sure, Potter. I've no idea how those pea-sized Gryffindor brains work, do I?"  
  
I steal a slice of apple from the napkin in his lap and laugh.  
  
"Never really thought about it, to be honest."  
  
"What, you mean _the gay thing_ as Macmillan likes to call it?"  
  
I roll my eyes at Ernie's lack of tact.  
  
"Yeah, that."  
  
"Potter, are you telling me that you never once let your eyes wander in the Quidditch changing rooms? No peeking at the others while you all change into your red and gold striped pyjamas?"  
  
"Doesn't everyone do that?" I ask, laughing at the image of all of us wearing uniformed pyjamas.  
  
He cocks his head and grins at me. "No, not everyone does."  
  
"Well, it wouldn't matter even if I were curious. I've no desire for _that_ at the moment."  
  
"Maybe you're the one who should be lying here in hospital, Potter. Every teenage boy has desire for _that_ , as you so eloquently put it."  
  
"No thanks - after Ginny, I need a bit of a break from trying to figure girls out."  
  
"I've sensed there's no love lost between you two, I must admit." Malfoy starts unraveling the bandages from his right hand - the one that was the least damaged. The skin looks pink and sore, but he flexes his fingers and seems satisfied with the ointment's progress.  
  
"She'll never admit it, but I think that part of her blames me for Fred."  
  
Malfoy looks up and frowns. "Yes, that would put a bit of a damper on things, wouldn't it?"  
  
"Besides, I'm not even sure that it was really about her anyway. I think that I was just glad that anybody wanted me, really," I laugh, slightly embarrassed by what I'd just revealed. I blame the late hour and lack of sleep.  
  
He gives me a funny look, but says nothing. I feel awkward for what I've said, and search for a change of topic.  
  
"Come here, Potter," Malfoy suddenly says, sitting up and moving to the edge of the bed. He's looking at me expectantly, and I'm confused.  
  
". . . I'm right here."  
  
"Closer," he says.  
  
I don't move, unsure of what he's even asking me to do, and then he's leaning closer, his un-bandaged hand gripping the front of my shirt, and pulling me toward him.  
  
"Malfoy-"  
  
"You're either going to hit me, or thank me, but honestly Potter, I think that you could do with a bit of curiosity."  
  
Before I can even respond, Malfoy is pressing his mouth against mine. I'm too stunned and shocked to even breathe. My field of vision is a mixture of pale blond and dark grey and smooth, creamy skin that looks almost silver in the moonlight.  
  
I move my lips, intending to speak and ask him what he's doing, but Malfoy takes it as something else and what started off as a simple press of lips turns into something else altogether. I can smell apples, taste it on him as our breath mingles and it takes several seconds for my brain to register the very real fact that Malfoy isn't just kissing me, he's _kissing me_ . . . and I'm kissing him back.  
  
All I can do is close my eyes and hold on.  
  


\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/

  
  
I sneak back into the eighth year boys' dorm, careful not to wake the others. I strip off my shirt and trousers and climb into bed, the linens cold against my overheated skin.   
  
The sun is just starting to rise, casting an orangey hue through the trees outside, and soon it'll be peeking over the tallest branches.  
  
I can still feel Draco's lips on mine, the taste of apple lingering on the tip of my tongue.   
  
I finally fall asleep, the hint of a smile on my face.  
  
Curiosity is a very good thing indeed.  
  


\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/

  
  
It's approaching noon when I finally awaken, and there's a brief moment of panic when I realise that I've missed two classes already before I fall back against my pillow, giving it up as a lost cause. What's one day going to matter in the scheme of things?  
  
Besides, little else matters to me this morning in light of the stunning realisation that I had last night.  
  
I kissed Draco, and I liked it. A lot. So much that I'd like to do it again, as soon as possible. In fact, _now_ would be good. Yes, now would work very nicely indeed.  
  
I'm out of bed and in the bathroom brushing my teeth before five minutes have passed, and as hurry back into the dormitory to get dressed, I find Draco standing in front of his bed.  
  
That famed Gryffindor courage deserts me in a flash, and now that I'm face to face with him in the cold light of day, I realise that I've no idea what Draco's thinking. Maybe he doesn't want to kiss me again.  
  
"Morning, Harry," he says to me, sounding as awkward as I feel.   
  
The fact that he's called me _Harry_ and not _Potter_ is enough to put me slightly more at ease. After all, you have to stay on a first name basis with someone once you've had your tongue in their mouth. I'm pretty sure that's a rule.  
  
"How are you feeling?" I ask, noting that his hands are no longer bandaged.  
  
"Good, I think. Yes, good."  
  
Some of my courage returns and I close the distance between us. If I reach out, I could smooth the wrinkled collar of his shirt.  
  
"So," he starts, meeting my eyes for the first time since last night.  
  
"So."  
  
I don't know what to say, and apparently neither does he.  
  
"Oh this is silly," he says suddenly, "we're not a couple of virgin schoolgirls here."  
  
As the word _virgin_ starts banging around in my skull like a rogue bludger, Draco grabs the back of my neck and pulls me into a deep, searching kiss.  
  
I suppose that we could discuss that whole virgin business later.  
  


\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/

  
  
I'm sitting in Charms class, chewing the end of my quill and paying little attention to Professor Flitwick's long-winded diatribe about the under-utilization of the Supersensory Charm. Neville is sitting next to me, leaning over and looking at my notes - or lack thereof.  
  
"Malfoy on the brain again, eh, Harry?"  
  
"What?" I say, stupidly wondering if the thoughts I'd just been having about all the other parts of Draco that I might like to put my lips on are written all over my face for the entire school to see.  
  
Suddenly Kevin Whitby, a young boy from Hufflepuff, comes barreling through the classroom doors.  
  
"Headmistress McGonagall wants to see Harry Potter," the boy says, taking great heaving breaths between every other word as though he'd run ten miles without stopping to get here.  
  
I look up at Professor Flitwick, startled, and he motions me towards the door. "Well go on, mustn't keep her waiting, boy!"  
  
Out in the corridor, I ask Kevin if he knows why she's called for me. The look on the boy's face causes a sick feeling to form in the pit of my stomach.  
  
"I'm not sure, but I saw Draco Malfoy-"  
  
At the mention of his name, white noise fills my eardrums and my brisk pace turns into a full run as I race towards the hospital wing, ignoring Whitby's shouts behind me.   
  


\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/

  
  
The waiting rooms at St Mungo's leave a lot to be desired. The floor is beige, the walls are beige, and even most of the staff uniforms are beige.   
  
A Medi-Witch with bright ginger curls walks by, smiling sympathetically. It's the fifth time in two hours. My stomach growls from hunger, the dinner hour long since passed. It seems like six days and not six hours since McGonagall and Pomfrey shoved me through the Floo of the Hogwarts hospital wing. All I'd been told is that the potion that had been spilled n Draco the day before had absorbed more than they originally thought, and Malfoy had fallen ill during Defense Against the Dark Arts class. _"The baby is at risk, Harry. Go, and we will meet you there shortly."_ That was all McGonagall said to me just before she dropped the Floo powder, green flames swallowing me up and spitting me out here.  
  
McGonagall and Pomfrey had indeed come and gone. I'd insisted that they leave after two Healers came to inform us of Malfoy's condition - and the baby's. McGonagall had yet to inform Draco's mother of the situation, and I knew that he would want her here.  
  
Apparently the Exploding Fluid that had absorbed in the skin on Draco's hands had reacted with the potions he was taking for the pregnancy, and caused both to become volatile in Draco's bloodstream. They had to stabilise him before they could work on the baby, and that was the last I heard before they returned to Draco's room.  
  
I'm kicking myself for never having pushed Draco harder to reveal who the other father is. I've had suspicions for a while that it's someone who is now dead - someone who died in the final days of the War - and that's the reason for Draco's secrecy.  
  
My stomach is in knots, and I can't sit any longer.   
  
Just as I stand, Narcissa Malfoy appears in the doorway.   
  
I've not seen her since that day in the forest when she leaned over my supposedly dead body and asked me if Draco was still alive. She seems so much older now.  
  
"Harry Potter."  
  
Her voice is nothing like I remember.  
  
"Mrs Malfoy."  
  


\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/

  
  
She sits opposite me, cradling a paper cup filled with steaming tea. Her face betrays nothing, and I want to grab her by the shoulders and shake her. Ask her how she can be so calm.  
  
"Has he told you?"  
  
Her crisp, clear voice breaks the thick silence and startles me.  
  
"Sorry?"  
  
"My son. Has he told you?"  
  
It takes several moments for me to work out what she's referring to, and I realise that she knows the answer to the question that has been at the front of my mind all evening.  
  
"No, he hasn't told me."  
  
I'm tempted to ask her, but I know that she won't reveal it, either.  
  
"He writes of you often."  
  
There's an unasked question behind her words, and I wait for her to voice it. Draco's letters to his mum are news to me, though in hindsight, they shouldn't be. Draco's always seemed close to her and it only makes sense that he would be writing to her, especially considering . . .   
  
"Do you care for my son?"  
  
Something in her tone sets my teeth on edge, and I bite back a sarcastic remark.  
  
"Yes."  
  
She gives me a long, appraising stare before looking down at her tea and nodding.  
  
We sit in silence and wait.  
  


\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/

  
  
Mrs Malfoy opens the door to Draco's room and walks into the hospital corridor.  
  
"He's asking for you."  
  
I'm inexplicably nervous and wring my hands. As she walks by me, she places her hand firmly on my arm.  
  
"I have little choice but to trust you with my only child, Mr Potter. Do not make me regret it."  
  
Her words seem harsh, but I'm instantly reminded of that day in the forest and realise that Draco is all that Narcissa Malfoy has left in the world now . . . Draco, and his son.  
  
"I won't."  
  


\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/

  
  
I hadn't expected to see the shock of black hair on the baby's head, and Draco laughs at my reaction. He's cradled in Draco's arms, suckling the tip of Draco's finger as he sleeps.   
  
"Christ, he got saddled with your pointy chin, didn't he? Poor little fellow."  
  
Draco cuffs me on the shoulder with his free hand, and pats the empty space next to him on the bed.  
  
"Sit."  
  
I do as I'm told, careful not to move too much and wake the baby.  
  
"Mother didn't frighten you, did she?"  
  
"Harmless as a kitten," I answer, unable to take my eyes off the child.  
  
Draco smirks, threatening to call her back in so that I can say it to her face.  
  
Draco's baby boy was born nearly seven weeks early, but aside from his small size, is healthy and unharmed by recent events. The birth, done by a form of modified Apparition for when it's too dangerous for the mother - or in this case, the father - cannot deliver naturally, was quick and without complication. All that I could think when the Healer told me was that Hermione would be _fascinated_ by all of it.  
  
I can't wait to tell her when she comes home for Christmas. There will be a lot to tell her and Ron both, and I'm simultaneously excited to see them, yet dreading their reactions.  
  
I can already picture Ron's face.   
  
"Scary, isn't it?" he asks me, and I realise that he's been watching me stare at the baby.  
  
"Shouldn't I be asking you that?"  
  
"Like jumping into the fog. Hopefully there's solid ground there to catch you."  
  
I want to tell Draco that I'll gladly catch him if he'll let me. Yes, there's a baby now, and no it's not mine, but after spending the last couple of years chasing death, this new life in Draco's arms doesn't seem like a complication. I'm only just starting to wrap my head around this new . . . _thing_ we seem to have started, and I'm in no hurry to let it go. Things have already gone too far for me to just walk away.  
  
"Draco, why won't you tell me who the other father is?"  
  
He looks at me, and then the baby, and smiles.  
  
"I will. One day.  
  


\ Eleven Years Later /

  
  
The Platform is crowded, and I can barely see Ron and Hermione through the thick billows of steam from the train.  
  
"There they are!" our son shouts, pointing across the way before pushing his way through the throngs of parents and students.  
  
Draco grabs hold of my hand and squeezes as we walk towards them. Al is talking excitedly with Rose and Hugo, looking every bit an anxious first year. I've been dreading this moment for years. I'm not ready to say goodbye.  
  
"Oi, about time you lot got here," Ron says, clapping Draco on the back as Hermione hugs me. I can see Arthur and Molly over her shoulder, standing a few feet away with George and Angelina, and their boy Fred, who's also starting his first year.  
  
"With all the Weasleys here today, it's a wonder anyone else can fit onto the platform!" I can hear Molly's cheerful voice over the crowd as she cradles Bill and Fleur's newborn daughter, Dominique.  
  
"A veritable sea of ginger," I hear Draco muttering beside me, just before he crouches down to be at eye-level with Severus.  
  
Our son turns, looking nervously at Draco as he straightens the fastening on Al's robes.   
  
"Now remember, son, what do you say whenever anyone asks you your name?"  
  
"My name is Albus Severus Malfoy Potter, and I was named after two of the bravest men my dads have ever known," he smiles brightly.   
  
I shake my head as Ron barks out a laugh. "Don't look at me," I say, pointing at Draco as he stands, "that's all him."  
  
"Bit of a mouthful, that. Could always just say 'Al' and have done with it," Ron says to my son as he looks up at Ron and scowls. He looks so much like Snape in that moment, and judging by the expression on Ron's face, I'm not the only one to have noticed.  
  
"Dad," Al says, tugging on my sleeve, "will his portrait still be there?" I look over at Draco who is preoccupied with checking the lock on Al's owl cage for the umpteenth time that morning.   
  
I pull Al slightly away from the crowd. "Yes, and you can talk to him whenever you want to, unless he's asleep."  
  
"And he'll remember, right? That I'm his son?"  
  
"Yes, and I reckon that he's been waiting for you."  
  
"Do you think so?"  
  
His dark brown eyes look up at me with such eager expectation.  
  
"I know so."  
  
His smile is blindingly bright before he turns to rejoin the group. It took a long time for me to come to terms with the fact that Snape was Al's biological parent when Draco finally told me on the eve of his first birthday. It wasn't that I was disappointed, or even disgusted, as apparently Narcissa had been when she first learned the truth. Draco never needed to explain to me why or how it had happened, though he did eventually, but he did sometimes express regret for the overwhelming shame that Snape had apparently felt in the aftermath. I think it comforted Draco in some small way to know that Snape hadn't lived too much longer, knowing better than most the heavy burdens that had been weighing the man down for decades.  
  
Any regret that Draco had felt, he once told me, disappeared the moment he found out that he was going to have Al.  
  
The whistle from the train beckons me back to the present, and I return to Draco's side, placing my arm around his waist and drawing him close. We watch as Al, Fred, and numerous other Weasley kin make their way onto the train.   
  
Hermione kisses the top of Rose's head. "That'll be you in a few years, sweetheart."  
  
As the train starts to pull away, my heart constricts at the sight of Al at the window waving goodbye.  
  
"All right there, Potter?" Draco asks me, his grey eyes shiny and bright with emotion.  
  
"Never better."  
  
~fini~


End file.
